d that they expected one day to see you at the head of the
literature of the time, or near it. The Printer-devil can't take away
that, Gussie. He can take the money; but he can't say that he wrote the
book; though," she added, with a touch of childish spite and vivacity, "I
have no doubt that he would if he could. And then there were those
letters from the great authors up in London; yes, I often think of them
too. Well, dearest old girl, the best of it is that I know it is all
true. I _know_, I can't tell you how, that you will be a great woman in
spite of all the Meesons in creation; for somehow you will get out of his
power, and, if you don't, five years is not all one's life--at least,
not if people have a life. At the worst, he can only take all the money.
And then, when you are great and rich and famous, and more beautiful than
ever, and when the people turn their heads as you come into the room,
like we used to at school when the missionary came to lecture, I know
that you will think of me (because you won't forget me as some sisters
do), and of how, years and years before, so long ago that the time looks
quite small when you think of it, I told you that it would be so just
before I died."

Here the girl, who had been speaking with a curious air of certainty and
with a gravity and deliberation extraordinary for one so young, suddenly
broke off to cough. Her sister threw herself on her knees beside her,
and, clasping her in her arms, implored her in broken accents not to talk
of dying. Jeannie drew Augusta's golden head down on her breast and
stroked it.

"Very well, Gussie, I won't say any more about it," she said; "but it is
no good hiding the truth, dear. I am tired of fighting against it; it is
no good--none at all. Anyhow we have loved each other very much, dear;
and perhaps--somewhere else--we may again."--And the brave little heart
again broke down, and, overcome by the prescience of approaching
separation, they both sobbed bitterly there upon the sofa. Presently came
a knock at the door, and Augusta sprang up and turned to hide her tears.
It was the maid-of-all-work bringing the tea; and, as she came blundering
in, a sense of the irony of things forced itself into Augusta's soul.
Here they were plunged into the most terrible sorrow, weeping at the
inevitable approach of that chill end, and still appearances must be
kept up, even before a maid-of-all-work. Society, even when represented
by a maid-of-all-wo